


A Study in Film

by MAVEfm



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Drug Use, Gen, Pre-Canon, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, dont judge i pulled this out of my ass, i have no idea lol just play along, i'm writing like three other things that are MILES above in Quality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAVEfm/pseuds/MAVEfm
Summary: Klaus decides he shouldn't sleep when he's high if he can help it, the questions his drugged out brain asks his subconscious are nothing he wants to ask, and the black and white static of old school films are a lousy genre to get stuck in, his own perceptions twisting as he recites dialogue that would have fit in A Streetcar Named Desire.





	A Study in Film

**Author's Note:**

> Know that I really have no clue where this came from, I'm trying to write like three other things for TUA and this just slapped me upside the face. Think of it as me trying to write in the style of an old black and white movie without actually filming anything. Klaus is a little ooc but he's high on a weird drug that I made up that makes dreams really vivid so. It goes without saying that the depictions of drugs in this are completely unrealistic.

 

This guy that Klaus was seeing.

 

He had this name, Abraham.

 

He always wore the color blue and had this twitch that raced up his arms to his eyes and loose dark curls that Klaus would run his hands through for hours.

 

They got high together, as often as they could, with whatever they could find, falling into a routine of sex and drinking and whispering under the covers in the shittiest apartment in the city.

 

Abraham had this thing for movies, Klaus knew, old black and white films with now dead stars and directors with Japanese names. He’d never want to watch something like Office Space, when he was high, though he said he loved the movie. Abraham liked 12 Angry Men and The Man Who Knew Too Much, or High and Low or Elevator to the Gallows. He knew about things like Wide Shots and Extreme Close-Ups and Blocking techniques and something called Aspect Ratio.

 

He had a degree in it, but Klaus didn’t really care, hearing him talk while the world floated out of focus was like slipping into a warm bath. Having the television on to Hollywood’s golden age of orchestral scores and beautiful dames whose eyes were always framed with silver light made Klaus feel like he was in a perfect fantasy. The kind where every conversation he had was enunciated and important, bookended with lighting a cigar or two and having the darkened neutral gray of an office or a bedroom fill with smoke as he’s caught in a dashing and torrid love affair with a morally gray private detective that called him ‘Trouble’.

 

Abraham was an expert in this fantasy, gripping him around the face and pulling him close like they were in Casablanca. Klaus didn’t totally understand it, but putting on some old robe and letting it be some cashmere number and letting it slip too low for the 1950s made him feel special, and not in the: ‘Your last name is Hargreeves isn’t it? I totally forgot about you guys until that book came out-’ Kind of way.

 

Abraham was often too high to ask.

 

Ben had once asked: “Are you happy with this guy, Klaus? Like really? Because he’s getting worse, worse than you, and he can’t give you anything if he’s gone.”

 

Klaus waved his hand, A Streetcar Named Desire filling his gaze, and Abraham’s soft touch on his thigh.

 

When Abraham showed him the pills, his eyes alight, he said: “I’ve been kind of hoarding these for myself, they’re amazing… I usually fall asleep with them, they make your dreams into…” He stretched for the right words, but Klaus understood even as silence befell them.

 

“I wanted to lie here with you, take them together,” Abraham was already palming three, Klaus had never taken it before, so he took one.

 

At first, the high was ordinary, stretching his perceptions and dragging along with gravity. He couldn’t tell if he was fast or slow, only seeing Abraham and the bed with the gold headboard and squeaking frame.

 

And he felt so sleepy.

 

They burrowed into each other, close and warm a little sweaty, their eyes unable to focus as their fingers intertwined. Some old movie on in the background, swelling with some triumphant score, romantic and pure.

 

His dream was constructed around him.

 

Silent.

 

Static, white noise, on an old Hollywood sound stage.

 

He was standing, wearing his clothes, tight pants and old cropped shirt, his long overcoat flowing out behind him.

 

The static ate at his eardrums and for a moment he stood, itching at his ears and pulling on his lobes to get it to stop.

 

It didn’t work.

 

He looked up, the world centering him into the frame, then pulling in close to him with a short blink. He examined his hands, then looked back up.

 

Black and white, gray and soft.

 

He was in his fantasy, his Golden Age Hollywood foreplay.

 

But he was in the foyer of the one place he couldn’t bear to see.

 

The Academy looked medieval in black and white. It was quiet, save for the static of old film, and his steps were dull clicks on the carpet. The light streaming in from the high windows casting spotlights on his cheeks and he lived in the light for just a moment, turning down the hallways of his childhood home. No noise save for his shoes.

 

His walk was followed through views from open doors, then at the end of the hall, Klaus felt the eyes and heard the click of a camera committing him to roles of film. The quiet stretched on forever until a brief bout of laughter exploded from a room to his right, the stomping of footsteps on the floor. Two children, each in pressed uniforms, rushed past him, still laughing into the distance. Klaus’ heart pounded.

 

He hadn’t been able to tell who was who.

 

When he turned again, it was into a children’s room.

 

Not a bedroom, because all bedrooms were up a floor, but a toy room more than anything.

 

The angle shifted, away from him and onto the woman kneeling close to another boy, clothed in his pressed and ironed uniform. He was sitting tight to the floor, hunched and quiet. The woman took up the frame, and over her shoulder, still blurry and out of focus, Klaus.

 

“Mom,” He said, feeling it strange to speak alongside the film static, his voice pressed into an old microphone that rounded out the sound at its edges.

 

His mother looked back up at him and his image sharpened with her focus turned.

 

“Hello, Klaus, dear,” Her smile was warm and she stood to greet him, her heels clicking. She looked at home in black and white, her perfect hair and makeup and the way the light shined on her perfect skin, “It’s so good to see you again,” She took his hand and weaved her fingers through his, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Was it a long night? Can I pour you a drink?”

 

“No, mom, it’s alright,” His tone was soft, “Who’s this?”

 

His mother led him over to the boy on the ground, his face in his hands, refusing to acknowledge them.

 

“He’s been in a mood all day, haven’t you?” Mom put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “Doesn’t want to play with his brother’s and sisters, not even when they offered to make him the policeman in their little game of Cops and Robbers.”

 

Klaus crouched low in front of him, “Well, that’s no fun,” He pressed, “I’m sure they miss you.”

 

The boy looked up at him, his face a mirror set back in time. Mom pet the boy’s hair until Klaus could feel it as his own, until he was the one in schoolboy shirts and the jacket emblazoned with the seal of the Academy.

 

“Right, Klaus? You don’t want them to miss you, they can’t play the game without you, can they?”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

“Are you sick?” She cupped a hand to his forehead, “You’re usually so boisterous.”

 

Klaus shrugged and the world swiveled to show the door behind them, and the shadow that imposed itself through it.

 

“Number Four,” His father’s voice pushed through the static as Klaus craned his neck to see him over his shoulder, “Follow me into the Dining Hall.”

 

His mother squeezed his shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

 

He followed, obedient, behind his father.

 

When the door shut behind them, echoing loud with a click, Klaus was a man again.

 

His father’s voice echoed into the high ceilings, giving a lecture as the world kept him in a long take, showing him seated comfortably amid the finery of the Hargreeves estate. Golden candelabras and stuffed animal trophies, positioned on the walls and on the tables, all of the framed and ornate paintings set against a gaudy wallpaper, filled with complicated patterns. It looked unreal in black and white, his father’s classic mustache and trimmed beard made him into a film star, his monocle glinting from unseen stage lights.

 

“I have every right to drag you back here, Number Four,” He said, “You have a name such as mine attached to you, I have higher expectations than most. You don’t think this nonsense has gone on long enough? Why, your brother Luther has applied himself in every aspect of his life.”

 

Klaus found himself stepping forward, slow and deliberate, pushing past the finery to see his father, low in his chair, tired with age, gray and frail. His hands were wrinkled and bent, pointing at him. He was in a suit now, gray and pinstriped, classic, conservative, it made him itch.

 

“I have provided for you in every moment of your life, same with your brother’s and sisters,” The old man leaned forward, and Klaus blinked, the settled gaze pushed on his face until Reginald began again. “You children believe you are invincible to the world out there, but what would this privilege I’ve given do but make you soft? I treated you as I did to prepare you! For life, real life, Number Four, and now I see my children take my gifts and squander them as they do? How dare I give you these luxuries if this is what you do with them.” He slammed his hand against the table and Klaus flinched.

 

The two of them were made small in the room around them, the animal's glassy eyes peering down at them from their plaques.

 

Klaus opened his mouth, almost prepared to fight this argument. His father thrust a finger in his face.

 

“Not a word from you, Number Four,” Reginald’s voice scratched and his hands shook, his coughs were ragged and bone dry, “You’ve committed to letting your father die alone, you can’t go back on your word, it would only be another disappointment, dig your grave, my son-” He coughed again and Mom made her way into the room, her heels clicking fast on the polished tile. They were in a wide shot again, their bodies blocked to the edge of the frame as she leaned over him. Pulling in close again, he pushed her away, grabbing his cane and pushing himself to his feet still coughing, the static clicking in Klaus’ ears, then fading to the background again.

 

“Take your trinkets, Number Four, live in your own personal squalor, but know this,” He straightened himself to his full imposing height, standing tall over Klaus in his chair. “I can make you and unmake you, as I please, Number Four, I only require your willingness to give in to fear, and that is your only consistency.”

 

The doors slammed behind him.

 

“I didn’t know you were back,” Ben had slipped in as Reginald left, dressed in the suit they had buried him in, they met in the middle of the room.

 

“I only meant to see Mom,” Klaus smiled, dim, “And to move my things, I’m shipping out.”

 

Ben looked young in black and white, no hair out of place, “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to serve your country?”

 

“Diego had the right idea,” Klaus pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, “The war is the only place that man won’t go.”

 

His words were foreign, just practiced dialogue as the two of them began their walk down the hall opposite, stopping by the doors as the smell of nicotine permeated the air and the smoke from the burning end wisped white against the shadows.

 

“I’ll stop by again before I ship out, the old man will hate seeing me in any uniform that isn’t his.”

 

“I have to tell you then, before you go,” Ben tilted his head out the door, “He had your things moved, put them into storage, along with all the other things Diego and Allison left behind, wanted to shove them where they’d have to work for them, he said, and you’re not gonna like it.”

 

Klaus laughed some old Hollywood laugh, practiced and charismatic, “What could he have found that would make me want to work for it?”

 

“Some woman,” Ben glanced down, the shadows settling deep into his face. “Some woman you need, I’ve never seen her before, but she’s important to you, even if you never thought of it that way before.”

 

Klaus frowned, the night had come, sudden and setting the tone, light from the moon hitting the blinds and casting lines on his face.

 

“What woman? Could a woman really be what our father believes I want?”

 

“This woman you might.”

 

Ben turned the handle and Klaus stepped out into the cool night, the world in tones of gray and black with the dim moonlight.

 

Somewhere, he heard music, soft and distant. Klaus stuffed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants.

 

“I’m not in any mood for games, Ben,” Klaus took a drag and turned to face the graveyard, “Not here, anyway.”

 

“It’s no game,” Ben shook his head, “Just questions you didn’t know you need answers to.”

 

“Well, how would I know to ask them?”

 

Klaus feels strained like he’s pushing against a rock. vaguely, he remembers he’s dreaming, that this is all some drug-induced state of lucidity and sleep.

 

Ben avoids his gaze, the frame almost too tight on his face, “He said he’d keep your mother in there.”

 

“I just saw mom, the old man is crazy, he’s been crazy for years.”

 

“Not her,” Ben tilted his head and the old film clicked back and forth between their faces, the light from inside cast onto Klaus’ face. “The one he left in Germany, and the one in Brazil, and Zimbabwe, and Hong Kong-”

 

For a moment, Klaus stirs in his sleep, the black and white world twisting until he’s alone in front of the mausoleum, his hands shaking and the music and the tension rising in his ribcage.

 

Distantly, back at the house, a light from the third floor flickers on, and Klaus can spy Vanya setting her violin through the curtains.

 

He’s close to crying, the tombstones around him rising from the ground uneven and tilting. The lock on the door to the mausoleum is weak and he can imagine someone banging to get out, throat raw from screaming. The harsh sounds of trumpet beats and nerve-wracking horns beat with his heart, fast and attempting to bring him to his knees. Fear tugs at his lungs and drives his gaze from side to side, fearing capture from his father, fearing the dead. In black and white, his fingers are illuminated with the white light from the moon, the music holding steady, trilling in high anxiety and suspense.

 

He imagines his mother, against his will, what might she look like? Will she know English, or only speak German? Did she want to give him away? Will she still love him?

 

He thrashes in his sleep, but in his dream, he is ripping the door from its hinges like Luther could, refusing to fear the grave in search for-

 

He wasn’t really sure.

 

His body stood framed in the doorway, all darkness, a profile that leaned heavily downward as the world tipped back into the grays and blacks of the mausoleum. Uneven stones and carved in names stretched into nothing but empty corners.

 

That same music swelled again, building in his chest as he stared, transfixed, into the crypt.

 

The light from the distant moon settled heavily on his brow and sharpened on his cheekbones. His hair shined with white light and spilled onto his shoulders. It pooled past his forehead and into his eyes, sparkling bright and clear into the iris, like clean water over rocks, leaving the rest of his face in the dim. The tear that escaped his grasp fell slow and heavy down his face, still stark, even against the pale indentations of his skin. This world, still black and white and perfect as a Hollywood sound stage, implied color and a rolling score of music that defined loneliness and brevity.

 

The sad and lonely blue of the moonlight and the reddening of his eyes, still sparkling clear and bright with tears. There was that same white noise, a static that dampened with each passing note of the orchestra thundering in his ears. Somehow triumphant, somehow so deeply sad and heart-wrenching that it seemed to pull him backward, away from his body cemented in place and farther back. The music stepping fast and sobbing harshly through his skull, he pulled away, watching his body grow smaller and smaller in comparison to the mausoleum, to the grounds, to the house, the Academy. He caught glimpses of Vanya's window, her light perpetually lit, her profile ever fixed, the violin on her shoulder ever stuck in the same melody.

 

Strange that he could still see the inside of the tomb, yet his mind had pulled back, far enough to make it seem like the smallest part of the world around it.

 

The music faded until there was nothing but static, and the view of his tiny body, still looking into the dark. The world around it still moving, ever turning in its clockwork, unaware of his own broken mechanism.

 

When he blinked, he saw a boy tucked tight into the corner, bony and frail, pushing himself to his knees. His face is a mirror to the past.

 

“Has it been six hours yet? Can-Can I go home now?”

 

Klaus gasps awake and his world is in color.

 

He breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“Sweetheart, that might be your thing, living out some existential nightmare but count me out next time.”

 

Abraham is beside him, unresponsive.

 

“I mean I eat this shit up with a knife and a fork, but it’s a lot to unpack and I like to leave the suitcase closed, you know?”

 

He turns Abraham over to his back and flinches away.

 

He’d overdosed, the foam around his mouth tinged with purple.

 

“Bummer,” Klaus whispered, eyes prickling, “Didn’t even have the decency to give me a good high before he said sayonara.”

 

He bent to stuff a few DVD’s in his coat.

 

“Are you okay?” Ben asked, perched on the dresser, “I tried to wake you up when he… I wasn’t loud enough.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Klaus wants to hit something, he wants to get really high again and forget the stupid dream pills, “Someone will find him, let's just get the fuck out of here-”

 

He breaks down halfway down the stairs, screaming at the top of his lungs.

 

He checks himself into Rehab, looking for a bed, and thirty days later, his father is dead.

 

 


End file.
